


DOT DOT DOT

by Queenoftheuniverse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Drunk John, Drunkenness, M/M, Rushmole Ruffians (gratuitous use of), Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is upset with Sherlock so he drinks a vodka bottle dry, then falls on Mrs Hudsons bins, only the once. It is enough to give him a massive cranial injury the results of which is the loss of twenty years of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> I whacked the first few chapters in this first bit cos I could not be bothered doing multiple chapters right now.

DOT DOT DOT DASH DASH DASH DOT DOT DOT

CHAPTER ONE

JOHN was in love with this feeling, but he knew he should not be. It was the sort that led to other feelings in the morning, headache that seemed to split his head apart, mouth dry and hard to swallow, a sick roiling in his stomach. But right now, alcohol was his friend. His best friend, and fuck Sherlock fucking Holmes.

The flat was silent. Sherlock was out. John suspected he knew where. No proof of course, he wasn't a genius fucking deducer like Sherlock fucking….oh, his inner self was swearing a lot, he must be drunk. His outer self wasn't too sober either, truth be known.

John sat back in the kitchen chair, the flat swimming a bit before his eyes. He rolled his white shirt up his arms to try and relieve some of the heat he was feeling. It kind of worked, the cool air was nice on his skin, but he was still angry. So very angry!

With a cranky shout, he pushed away from the table, wobbling it so much his bottle of Vodka fell over. Nothing spilled, despite the top being off, because it was empty. He had drunk nearly a full bottle, not even pausing to use a glass. He had just wanted to get drunk quickly and efficiently. He was a bad bad man and he felt...

Ooo, he felt wobbly. He staggered over to the open window and stared down at Baker Street, its wet tarry road yellow under the street lights. Like a yellow brick road. John bet if he followed it he would get sadness and disappointment for his reward. He made a kind of pft sound to his thoughts, tried to grab the sill, missed, and crashed into Sherlock’s music stand.

“Sh! Sh! Sh!” He admonished, trying to put one finger up to his lips in a shushing gesture and nearly taking out his eye. The stand had not fallen onto the violin case, which John was glad of, but the music on the stand had flowed away on the mat like lava. He fell to his knees and tried to gather the sheets up in order but the squiggles turned to Arabic and confused him so he forgot what he was doing. 

He fell forward on his hands and swayed again. 

“The fuck am I doing….” He said out loud, shaking his head. Something liquid dropped onto one of the sheets of music and John realised he was crying. May have been for quite some time. Great, he was going maudlin drunk. This was not going to lead anywhere good.  
He took quite a while to get to his feet and when he did he was glad he had a wall to lean on. He crankily untucked his shirt from his jeans and noted, in an abstract way, that he was wearing odd socks and no shoes. He knew he had come in from work with shoes on, when had he taken them off…and why were his socks odd? Odd socks were odd…

He snorted, wiping at his wet face. It did no good, he was still crying, but he did it again anyway.

What he really needed to do was follow that yellow brick road. Maybe it would lead to Sherlock. He needed something…hmm, something…yes, from him. From Sherlock. He couldn’t quite remember what it was but if he followed the road, maybe it would answer...

Oh. Stairs. A lot of them. This could be tricky. He tried to step down one, felt air and panicked, falling gracelessly into the wall.

“Ow.” He told it, clawing at the paper until he could face the staircase again. He managed quite a few steps by holding the rail and squinting his eyes. His toes felt for the next step and he was good. Then he missed another, nearly went over the railing and accidently began a fit of giggles that made him snort and sit down, hard, on the steps. He clung to the railing in a death grip, until he could breathe properly again.  
“Sherlock, is that you?” Came Mrs Hudson’s voice.

“’smee mizziz Hudders.” John called back. “’m having words with the stairs.”

“Be a bit quieter John dear, I am trying to watch Doctor Who.”

“Right you are then!” John answered, mock saluting and barely stopping the giggles again. He heaved himself up again and then, with a gritty determination, made it down the stairs and to the front door. This barrier he stared at for quite some time, until he worked out how to open said door and exit the flat. He even managed to close the door behind him quietly, telling it to be shush cos Hudders was watching Who. He chuckled at himself, and gamely stepped forward.

He misjudged the step then and truly panicked as he pitched himself sideways. He braced himself for the impact of the front stoop but was mildly astonished to feel himself fall further than he expected. In fact he was surprised to see the window of 221C flash past his eyes before he noticed a split second later Mrs Hudson’s bins, still slightly dented from years ago when that American fell on them.

He only had a nano-second to react to this new information, that he had indeed fallen down into the little front garden, the one below street level, before his brain turned red, a shooting pain ricocheting like lightning through his skull.  
Everything turned bright white.

And then pitch black.

CHAPTER TWO.

He heard a voice, calling for someone. 

Someone called “John.”

Oh, that was him. 

He was John.

He smiled and tried to answer. 

He couldn't. 

Well that was odd.

Ow.

His head hurt and…

Oh God, he wanted to be sick!

He dry heaved and a sharp pain jabbed him so hard in the chest he passed out before he could vomit.

CHAPTER THREE

His throat hurt and his lips were dry. 

Ergh, there was something down his throat making him gag.

“Try to relax Mister Watson.”

He passed out again.

CHAPTER FOUR

He pulled at a thing in his skin, and it pinched. 

He whimpered.

It hurt.

“John, leave that in, it’s your IV.” A deep voice told him.

Oh. Ivy was important…

Blackness.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was the beeping he noticed first. It was incessant and at a pitch that unnerved him. He felt it was something important and probably something he should know about but the thought skittered away, leaving him confused.

He cracked open an eye. It was bright, and his eye watered. He put a hand up to rub it and felt tiny tubes in his nose, like straws. God, had he passed out at the pub again? Bastards, it wasn't funny…

He saw something stuck in his arm then, and he had a difficult time reaching for it. His co-ordination seemed odd. Perhaps he was very sick…oh, hospital! Of course. He wondered how he had got there, was he in an accident? Was Christopher okay?

He tugged at the thing in his arm. It pulled at his skin and it hurt. He sucked in a breath, which reminded him of the straws in his nose, so he yanked them out with his trembling hand.

A cacophony of alarms went off then and he almost screamed. What in the actual hell was going on!?

A nurse bustled in then, a look of surprise on her face.

“Hello Doctor Watson, you with us now?” she asked, carefully leaning over and reinserting the tubes into his nose.

He frowned, unaware of anyone else in the room with him. And why wouldn't this Doctor Watson fix his tubes? Perhaps nurses were better at it.

He swallowed a few times, and the nurse brought a cup to his mouth. He sipped gratefully, cool water sliding down his parched throat.

“Any pain?” The nurse asked then, taking his pulse at his writs and staring down at her upside down nurses watch clipped to her collar.

Pain? Come to think of it there was a bit.

“Head…” He croaked, and the nurse nodded.

“Not surprised. You cracked open your skull.” She said, calm as you please. 

“Skull….?” He croaked then, suddenly aware of bandages entwined around his head.

“Uh huh. And you now have eighteen staples in your scalp.” The nurse dropped his hand, brought out a thermometer and stuck it under his tongue. He wanted to ask so many things but he just lay there, thermometer jutting, watching the nurse adjust his drip and feel his forehead.

“No temp. That’s good.” She said then, removing the thermometer and looking at it. “I’ll let your doctor know you are awake, I am sure you have things to ask him.”

“Doctor Watson.” He said, nodding and then wincing.

“Yes dear…that’s you.”

“I thought he was my doctor?” He asked in a statement.

“No, you are Doctor Watson.”

“The fuck did that happen! I am only in my first year of uni!”

“No dear, it’s two thousand and fourteen.” The nurse said. 

“Holllllyyyyy…..” was all he could say. He flopped gently on his pillow and puffed out a breath.

“Confusion would only be natural, you have been in a coma for two weeks.” The nurse said then, and smiled at him. She pressed the doctor call button and the light went on over the doorway to his room.

John frowned. Two weeks…and twenty years! How had he lost twenty years of his life?

And then, joy of joys, Christopher’s voice!

“John! John’s awake?”

A tall, willowy black haired man slid into the room, shirt crumpled and cup of hospital tea in long white fingers.

“JOHN!” He cried, happily.

“Sorry….sorry…yes, I’m John…” John said. “You aren't Christopher…who are you?”

The man’s very lovely but tired eyes squinted in thought, roving over his face and body.

“I’m Sherlock. Your…friend.”

The way he said friend, with that pause, told John more than he said aloud. Twenty years had passed, he could understand that, and somehow he had broken it off with Christopher. How and why he would find out later. But now this man, Sherlock, was here, in his life, and he smiled widely. 

“Sherlock.” He said, grinning. Well, hadn't he hit the jackpot with this one, he was fucking gorgeous. No wonder he was closeted, he bet a million girls would love to go out with him.

“My…friend…” John added then, letting Sherlock know he would not give away his little secret. If it was one thing he knew, it was how to keep his boyfriends safe from bigotry. After all, Christopher’s parents still had no idea he was gay…

Oh dear, he was thinking in the wrong tense. That had been….twenty years ago…TWENTY YEARS!

“I’ll get your doctor here dear, you sit with your friend a while.” The nurse smiled, and left the room. 

Sherlock sat hard in the chair beside the bed, hand still around the tea like it had been forgotten.

“Well fuck me sideways….how the hell did I pull a gorgeous thing like you?” John asked then, and was gratified to see a blush spread all over his….friends…face…  
#


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk.

CHAPTER SIX

Sherlock was saved from answering with the arrival of three more visitors.

One was obviously his doctor, the white coat and badge gave it away. Behind him was an officious looking Auburn head bloke and a very gorgeous grey haired man.

“Glad to see you awake John, I’m Doctor Ben Smith. Any pain?”

“My heads a bit sore.” John said, noting that the silver haired man nodded to Sherlock and then pointed with his head to the door. Sherlock nodded, smiled to John, and left the room with the two men. John wondered who they were but was quite distracted by the Doctor.

“How much do you remember about your accident?” Dr Smith asked. 

John frowned. He actually had not thought about it, distracted as he was by the lovely discovery of his gorgeous 'new' boyfriend. 

“Was it…a car?” He asked.

“No. You fell from the front stoop of your house into the basement garden. The back right side of your head broke most of your fall.” Dr Smith explained. “If you had not been as drunk as you were the injury would have been way worse.”

“I was drunk? I don’t drink. Ever. My dad and my sister…” John trailed off. His dad and his sister! They must be worried sick! 

“I can assure you, Mister Holmes brought you in with a blood alcohol of-“

“What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I recall things?” John butt in. He refused to believe he had turned into a drinker like his dad.

“I will have to get you in for another MRI but as far as we can see, you have lost a large chunk of your memory due to severe swelling. You were lucky to survive Doctor Watson. If Mister Holmes had not found you when he did you would have bled out and died.”

John stared in horror at Doctor Smith.

“I…I am not a doctor,Doctor Smith.”

“It says in your notes-"

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK…..what my notes say. I can barely recall my time as an intern! You are not talking to a fellow doctor you…” John closed his eyes and breathed. “Pretend I am a patient who has amnesia and DON’T TELL ME…I NEARLY FUCKING DIED!”

Sherlock raced into the room at Johns raised voice.

“All good here?” he asked in a clipped tone, staring daggers at Doctor Smith, who looked a bit taken aback.

“Doctor Watson-“ Dr Smith began.

“John, please!" John insisted.

“John…was merely pointing out that forty-two hours without sleep has caught up with me and I may have not been at my top notch best when informing him of his condition.”

John paused and then grinned.

“God, I am sorry, I know what that feels like, the lack of sleep.”

“I am sorry too. I will schedule you for an MRI in the morning and it should be able to tell us more.”

“Thank you Doctor Smith.” Sherlock said, a bit quickly.

“Mister Holmes.” The doctor nodded, and left the room.

“Oh…YOU’RE Mister Holmes.” John said then, lowering himself on his pillows again, suddenly exhausted. Sherlock cocked his hip and sat on the edge of the bed, crossing his arms.

“I am. Sherlock Holmes.” He said.

“I understand you saved my life.”

“Of course I did John. Obvious.”

“So…do you know what happened to me?”

“Yes.”

John looked at Sherlock from the depths of his hospital pillow.

“Do I want to know?”

Sherlock studied Johns face. Then said “Eventually.”

John nodded. Then asked softly:

“Am I like them?”

“Your father and sister I assume you mean. Alcoholics.”

John winced and prayed silently it was not so.

“No, John. You and Greg occasionally go to the pub for a beer. I have never seen you as…drunk as you were that night.”

John nodded. 

“And Greg is…?”

“My brother's annoying boyfriend, the silver haired man who was in here. The pompous git in the suit was my brother, Mycroft. No matter if you don’t remember him.”

John looked askance.

“Shush! Someone might hear you!”

Sherlock frowned. 

“Hear me?

“Call them…” John dropped his voice to a whisper “Gay….”

“They ARE gay John. Everyone knows it.”

“Are you telling me in twenty years it has become acceptable to be gay when in all the years of history before it was still such a dirty shameful secret?”

“Yes, John. I am.” Sherlock said, carefully. Something dawned in his face then, and John answered it with a grin.

“So everyone is fine with us then?”

“Us?”

“Being a couple. A gay couple” John smiled.

Sherlock nodded.

“Everyone is quite…used to us.” He said.

John smiled harder.

“I think I like this future.” He said, and winked at his stunning boyfriend.

#


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out some things

CHAPTER SEVEN

The nurse bustled in then and gave John pain relief. He thanked her with a smile.

“You up for more visitors?” She asked. “There’s two gentlemen outside to see you.”

“Greg and Mycroft.” Sherlock confirmed.

“Uh, sure, okay.” John said. 

The nurse left quickly, and was replaced with Mycroft, the one in the suit, and Greg, the rumpled silver haired man.

“Good to see you awake John.” Greg said, shaking Johns hand and planting himself on the chair recently occupied by Sherlock.

“Indeed Doctor Watson. You worried my brother to an unflattering emotional degree.” Mycroft did not shake Johns hand but sat on the other chair on the opposite side of the bed. 

“How’s your head?” Greg asked, chocolate brown eyes kind and smiley.

“Bit sore.” John said, understating the now pounding in his temples. Strange, he was not aware of the wound hurting, but that all these new revelations were giving him so much to think about his brain was overloading.

“How much do you recall of your life?” Mycroft asked then, quite sharply. Honestly, what did Greg see in this pompous arse?

“Perhaps, the last thing you remember?” Greg helped, frowning a little at Mycroft who nodded and relaxed a little. Ah, there it was. John was given a glimpse into how the two may work despite being almost polar opposites.

John frowned a bit. What DID he remember?

“My sister had broken up with her girlfriend…um…Miranda. Over her drinking of course. I got a call to pick her up from my local…” He paused. His sister had been a total fucking mess when he dragged her home. Weeping and wailing and…it was awful.

“Harry...is she okay?” John asked then. So much could happen in twenty years.

“She is still alive yes.” Sherlock said. 

“Good…that’s good…”

“You are estranged however.” Mycroft added. “One too many times dragging her from the gutter, too many women she left broken hearted, too many promises broken-“

“Sorry, but, who exactly are you?” John asked. He needed to place these new people in his new life, and Mycroft seemed to know and awful lot.

“I am Sherlock’s older brother. I occupy a Minor position in the British Government.”

“He eats cakes with the Queen.” Sherlock added, and grinned a secret grin at John. John did not return the smile, sensing it had something to do with something he should remember but could not.

“I am the Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard, if that helps at all mate.” Greg said. John frowned at him too. These jobs seemed so important.

“I consult with the Yard when they are out of their depths.” Sherlock said, eyes still bright. “Which is always.” He added, sotto vocce.

“Oi!” Greg protested, but it was good natured.

“So…what am I then?” John asked. Where would a so-called Doctor fit in all this?

“You are a local GP, John, a good one.” Greg said. “And more than that, you are Sherlock’s side kick.” He added with a grin, earning a derisive snort from Sherlock.

Suddenly John didn’t want to know any more. He was illogically anxious. A dark cloud pressed on his memories and he closed his eyes.

“I’m tired.” He said.

“By all means, let us go and allow Doctor Watson his rest." Mycroft said, standing easily.

“Yeah mate, take it easy, we will come back tomorrow after your results.” Greg said. John could feel them leave the room until only Sherlock was left.

“John…” 

God, that voice.

“Sherlock, I need sleep.” 

John felt Sherlock stand and suddenly opened his eyes.

“My father…?”

“Died five years ago John. When you were in Afghanistan.”

“What…the HELL was I doing in Afghanistan?”

“Army medic. Your father was very proud. But he never did find a cure for his addiction.”

John closed his eyes again. His mother had died when he was in Uni and now he had no father either. Now he had his estranged drunkard sister Harry, his ethereal genius boyfriend, a copper and a suit as his family.

Uneasy sleep claimed him and he figured he had dreamed the pair of lips kissing his forehead softly.

#


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John asks for more than he should.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Bandage changing, catheter and drip removal and MRI in the morning hurt John a great deal, and he was quite worn out by the time Sherlock visited after lunch. His abdomen ached and his arms stung and his head throbbed abysmally. 

His emotions were right on the surface and he should have known better than to ask his boyfriend anything. 

“Tell me what happened please?”

“John, I am not sure I should.” Sherlock said.

“I want to know.” John insisted, resting his fresh bandaged head back and raising the bed electronically. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms again. John saw it as a defense mechanism and his negative feelings flared again. He tamped down whatever flurry of emotions swirled together and gave Sherlock a watery smile. “I just…want to know. There’s so much I don’t remember.” He softened his face, fully aware that he was manipulating Sherlock but much too selfish right now to care. 

“Please…” he said softly.

Sherlock slit his eyes. He was well aware that John was trying to manipulate him and was astonished. He’d never done that before, John had always played it straight up with him. It was something he loved about John, how honest and respectful he was. However, this was twenty year old John he was essentially dealing with and maybe twenty year old John used this pouting to get his way.

“We had an argument.” Sherlock said. “That night. I left and you-“

“Sherlock, details, please. What did we argue about, why did you leave?”

Sherlock paused, and took a deep breath.

“I…admitted something to you and you reacted negatively.” Sherlock said. “Something….that was hard enough to tell you three weeks ago, I don’t know if I can do it again.”

“Are we in love?” John asked, somewhat rhetorically. Sherlock blinked in surprise. What he and John had was difficult to describe. 

“What does that have to do with this discussion?”

“If we are in love then what you told me three weeks ago should not-oh…” John realised what he was saying. Whatever it had been had made John drink an amazing amount of alcohol and fall down a cellar. “What the hell was it?” he hissed, his head throbbing.

“John, I wish now I had not left you.” Sherlock said. “I had no idea you would find the vodka and drink it because, quite frankly, I thought dealing with your sister would have dissuaded you from imbibing alcohol until you passed out. If Mrs Hudson had not been concerned enough to ring me I would not have found you in time so forgive me if I don’t want to repeat my mistakes by rehashing what upset you in the first place!"

Johns face had paled during Sherlock’s impassioned speech.

“The railing was bent, and I knew before I had even got out of the cab that you had fallen down there.” Sherlock whispered, staring at the floor next to the bed he was perched on. “I was calling for an ambulance before I even looked over. John…you were bleeding and pale and broken, I thought you were dead.”

John swallowed.

“I remember someone calling my name.” He said quietly, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

“I was trying to get a response from you. You had a weak pulse and your breathing was shallow and the ambulance was still fifteen minutes out. I…panicked. I panicked John, and I slapped you, I’m sorry…but I needed you to respond to me. You kind of did, and I have never been so happy to see vomit in my life.” Sherlock rose his eyes to look at john, a half smile on those magnificent lips.

“I rolled you over so you wouldn't aspirate and that’s when I saw the wound.” Sherlock went on. “There was so much blood, and I could see your skull! Your cracked skull! I wanted to grab it and press it together like I was gluing a tea cup but…I was scared. When the ambulance arrived I think I was being deducy as normal but I could hear my voice through mist. I nearly passed out by the time the backboard was lowered.”

John was blinking rapidly now. He had no memory of any of this. 

“I rode in with you, and had to sit in the waiting room for five hours before anyone came to tell me you were stable and being moved here to Intensive Care. By then I was half mad with not knowing. Mycroft and Lestrade arrived, and Molly, and Mike, and Mrs Hudson, everyone was so worried.”

“I don’t know those people.” John whispered. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. 

“Not important. You know them, suffice to say.” 

John nodded. Once. His head really hurt. Perhaps it was time for more pain meds? 

“When I was finally told you were in a coma I was relieved. I knew your body was in the best place to recover.” Sherlock finally looked up into Johns pale face, swallowed by the bandages and pillow.

“Sherlock….” John’s voice was dry around the lump in his throat. “I’m real sorry.”

Sherlock snorted.

“I am the one who is sorry. I should never have told you…“ He stopped.

“Told me what, Sherlock?” 

“John, I can’t yet. Not yet. When you are stronger.”

“I’m feeling much better.” John lied, face growing impossibly paler, his sparse freckles standing out. “I want to know…”

“John?” Sherlock asked, leaning closer, a look of concern on his face.

“Sometimes…” John whispered, as his eyes began to roll in his head…”Sometimes it’s better to eat the frog…”

Then his eyes showed their whites, and he began to convulse. 

“JOHN!!!” Sherlock roared as a cacophony of alarms once more screamed and bounced around Johns red fizzy brain.

The blackness was, quite frankly, a relief.

#


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has issues.

CHAPTER NINE

Sherlock stood on top of the Library roof. This was the one bolt-hole nobody, not even his annoying brother, knew about. It could be accessed by a mere leaping over three fences, a ladder, another roof, an alley and a few skip bins, was high enough to see most of London, and he could smoke up there, especially this late at night.

John had been stabilised after his fit and Sherlock was not ashamed to say he ran from the hospital then. He needed…needed…

Silence and no people and to quiet his mind.

He inhaled the Brother-banned and disgusting tobacco deep into his protesting lungs and fluttered his eyes half closed, allowing the moisture to blur the skyline.

He hopped up onto the low wall surrounding the roof, cigarette in his mouth and hands out like a tight rope walker. The wind snapped his coat, once, then settled. 

Sherlock watched his feet in his scuffed shoes walk carefully on the edge, the roof to the left of him, the road meters and meters down to the right.

“She said how quickly would I die…” Sherlock semi-sang to himself around the filter of his cigarette. “If I jump…from the top...of the parachutes…” 

The danger was intoxicating. He felt free up here, no responsibilities, no Mycroft, no John…it was liberating.

“Annnnd though I walk home alone….I might walk home alone….but my faith in love is still…devout!” 

At the word 'devout', Sherlock flung himself around to walk back the way he came, wobbling dangerously as the smoke and ash from his cigarette was blown into his face. His eyes watered and he suppressed a cough. Finally, his balance was restored and he was still alive.

”She is famous she is funny….and engagement ring…doesn't mean a thing…” 

He could not recall exactly when he had started hating himself, in fact it was only a few years ago he realised it for what it was. Hate. He hated himself. It would explain the hideous things he did to himself on a regular basis, the stupid risks he took. 

The outrageous risks.

The life threatening risks.

”The last night of the….fair….by the big wheel…generator…” 

He recalled when he started to refer to his body as “Transport.” High school. A very difficult time for him, and nearly everyone else. All he remembered was feeling so much lighter when he relabeled his outer shell. So much freer, and less guilty over the things he did to it.

And allowed others to do.

“A boy is stabbed…and his money is grabbed…”

Smoking, drugs, not eating, not sleeping, grabbing at his hair, running in a hot coat, leaping over buildings, chasing cabs…all these things showed how little he cared for the meat and bones he labelled "Transport".

And his inner self, the place he named “Mind Palace”, was hardly ever affected by the things his body did, in fact, seemed to love being coked up so it could rest.

“Then someone falls in love…” Sherlock kept singing to himself, spinning back again to retrace his steps. The cigarette puffed out in a gust of wind and spiraled down to the street. “…and someone’s beaten up, someone’s…beaten up…”

Sherlock finally left to the safety of the roof, and allowed himself to sit back against the low wall he had just been balancing on.

“And the senses being dulled are mine…” He whispered, and, using the heel of his hand, palmed away the tears that had started to flow.

“I’m sorry John.” He whispered. “I am really really sorry….”

#


End file.
